A question of awareness
by Fortyfive stars
Summary: HHr, 800 words. Harry... is drunk. Not the unpleasant, bowels emptying sort of drunk, but the amusing kind, the one that will make up silly ditties on the spot and form impromptu arm wrestling tournaments. Hinted at HPGW.


Disclaimer: It's all J.K's.**

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It would be absolute sacrilege to suggest that newlyweds will _not_, at any given location and time,  
scheme and plot devious new plans in which they sneak off and find a conveniently empty spot where  
engaging in husband-wife business is safe and private. (Or not so safe and private for some, if they  
are in that exhibitionist kind of mood.) **

**Yes, one might even say that this is regular behaviour, this is expected behaviour – if the world around  
the happy couple did not see the blushes and the tremulous kisses, the knowing looks and the signs  
of clothes hastily put in order… well, then the world would wonder, and question, and poke and probe.  
They would say, where is the love? They would worry.**

**But Harry isn't newlywed, and this woman is not his wife. That should mean more to him than it does,  
and with anyone else it would, but this is just too familiar and too easy. He loves Ginny, he does,  
but he loves this one too, with a fierce passion that wants to subdue and protect, dominate and worship.  
But above all, Harry just wants to give her all that she needs, wants her to feel every shred of happiness  
he can procure for her, by any shady means necessary.**

**And he kisses her sloppily on the mouth, harder than he meant to, but she's trembling under him,  
yes, this is exciting, kitten, isn't it? The bible is right, sort of, but of course their own interpretation  
does not perhaps exactly match the one God was aiming for. Forbidden feels better.**

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**Harry… is drunk. Not the unpleasant, bowels-emptying sort of drunk, but the amusing kind,  
the one that will make up silly ditties on the spot and form impromptu arm wrestling tournaments.  
At least that's how he thinks about it, and he is right, actually. The only time that he allows himself  
to get this embarrassingly drunk is at family affairs. Although of course Harry's definition of family is  
quite a bit broader than everybody else's. Not only does his wife have a large, boisterous family  
–related by blood- but also the ones that came to be known as 'the inner circle' are more family  
than friends now. The wars erased their walls, and blurred the lines between them. A little difference  
in blood doesn't dictate what's family and what's not, does it? (He usually delivers a long harangue on  
this very topic and ends with those very words, if only to earn the fond smile of his wife.)**

**So when he withdrew from the spacious salon which hosted this time's jolly family affair  
(trust Draco to have a salon the size of a minor ball room) to the kitchen, he was much surprised to find that,  
once the laughs stopped ringing in his ears, he thought he could hear quiet whimpering.  
Strangled; kept back?**

**Being Harry, he at last opened the door facing the corridor and stepped out into the enveloping shadow.  
The lights were low, probably a result of the very late hour, and when he hesitantly swayed his way down  
the short hallway he was most graciously aided by a hand on the wall. (He dismissed the thought if thanking it)**

**The corridor opened up like a flower, blooming into different directions and doors. But, at the foot of  
the gently curving staircase, she sat huddled in shadow. Appearing to watch the moonlight, or perhaps  
just reminiscingin this solitary moment. He should go, shouldn't he? So he attempts to, but the wall  
is not so very gracious anymore. Or at the very least, not to Harry.**

**And of course she must have been aware, all the time, of his presence because the lips curve  
in a smile so soft it is almost not noticeable if you haven't, like him, been watching so intently  
all these long years. When her eyes meet his, so dark and unnoticeably brown in the space of  
blue darkness and silver light, they almost appear to be lined with kohl; that's how deep the shadows  
of her face are. Yet he can see her cheeks are flushed, eyes just a little glassy, voice brittle. If he looks.  
Or her cheeks would be flushed, if the moon didn't drink all the colour from the world in its passage.**

**They remain silent, eyeing each other with a dignified solemnity, and just let their eyes do the talking.  
'_Do you want me too…?_' '_Could we…?_' '_Should I…?_' '_Let's…?_'**

**Their eyes are good at communicating, so they leave their mouths out of the process. Once they find a private  
place, because it's about comfort and love rather than exhibitionism, lips and hot, _wet_**warm** tongues  
will find something else to do.**

**Then they spin a lovenest of years, feelings and unspoken words.**

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A/N: I wish I could write with less embellishments. That is the purpose of all the drabbles I've been  
creating lately - to find a style that is more clean and pure and less... 'wordy'.  
Reviews - very much appreciated.


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